


The Bathing Habits of Dr. John H. Watson

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, baths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7698178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The knocks come crisply—three raps and then a long span of quiet. Slumping down further, John makes every effort to ignore the intrusion and relaxes as best he can in the less-than-ideal space available. If he doesn’t move, maybe he’ll be left in peace. There’s a brief respite of silence and then, again, three more raps on the door, in faster succession this time, followed by, “John, it’s been an hour, how can you possibly—”</p><p>“We agreed two, two hours.” There’s no room for argument; John’s tone makes that very clear. </p><p>It sounds as though Sherlock’s mouth is pressed right to the door when he next speaks. “What if I need the toilet!?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bathing Habits of Dr. John H. Watson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astudyinrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/gifts).



> My thanks to the Allisons, [wearitcounts](http://www.wearitcounts.tumblr.com) and [stars-inthe-sky](http://www.stars-inthe-sky.tumblr.com).
> 
> This is a gift to my lovely lady, Amanda, on her 29th birthday. I love you, boo!

The knocks come crisply—three raps and then a long span of quiet. Slumping down further, John makes every effort to ignore the intrusion and relaxes as best he can in the less-than-ideal space available. If he doesn’t move, maybe he’ll be left in peace. There’s a brief respite of silence and then, again, three more raps on the door, in faster succession this time, followed by, “John, it’s been an hour, how can you possibly—”

“We agreed two, two hours.” There’s no room for argument; John’s tone makes that very clear. 

It sounds as though Sherlock’s mouth is pressed right to the door when he next speaks. “What if I need the toilet!?”

“Speedy’s has a bathroom, or, as I said, you can come in and close the curtain and use our toilet. S’not anything I haven’t seen.” Between the military and his doctoring, he’s seen enough penises for a lifetime—vaginas, too, come to think of it. Besides, he’s not a prude, and he figured that this would come up eventually, what with there being two people and just one bathroom.

Though it’s generally Sherlock who spends too much time in the loo, whether it’s fussing with his hair or his rather thorough and intricate flossing routine, John’s entitled to a little time, too. He’ll make a very staunch case for it, if he has to. 

Sherlock’s voice, when he responds, is so indignant that it’s comical. “That’s undignified.”

John scoffs, turning his head towards the door as he shouts back, “Throwing me bodily into a grimy dumpster was undignified.”

“You would have been shot!”

“That man didn’t know how to hold a pistol; it would have been fine. Now, I have another hour.” John wriggles his fingers in the water, watching as it disrupts the bubbles. 

For a moment it seems that Sherlock has actual conceded the argument. “What do you even do in there?”

“Nothing, that’s rather the point! Besides, my leg-”

“Psychosomatic, don’t bother!” Sherlock cuts him off, and a grin breaks across John’s face. He’s quite happy that the limp is technically just in his head, but he’s sure he wouldn’t have discovered that had it not been for Sherlock. 

“Yes. Well. The shoulder, then,” John reasons, suddenly finding himself warm at their lighthearted exchange. “And, you know, chasing after you for a good four hours, it takes a toll on the body.”

“Ugh!”

“You wouldn’t understand,” John teases. “You’re fit and not nearing forty!” His eyes widen as he realizes what he’s said: “fit.” John waits a moment to see if Sherlock will respond. It’s no matter, he supposes. Everyone knows that Sherlock is fit. John is certain he isn’t the first person to have said as much; just another in a long line of people with, well, eyes. 

It’s another beat before Sherlock responds. “You are, without a doubt, the most boring man I have ever met.”

John huffs out a chuckle, the candle to his left flickering in the breeze from his lips. “Well, stop inviting me along on cases, then.”

There’s a pause from the other side of the door; John peeks one eye open and glances over at it. “I could just kick you out. You’ve not signed the lease yet.”

“Like Mrs. Hudson even does leases! Next time you’re going to threaten me, make sure there’s some truth behind it,” John chuckles and reaches for the glass of ice water set on the floor.

“Fine,” comes Sherlock’s voice from the hallway. “One more hour.”

“Just the one,” John murmurs and sinks lower into the bubbles. 

\---

“I asked you to clean the tub,” John says patiently, watching Sherlock. 

Sherlock glances over, silently assessing him from top to bottom. His eyes flit momentarily back to the Pyrex dish he’s pouring a beaker of something into, and then they’re back on John. “If you’re the one wanting to use it, doesn’t it stand to reason that you’re the one to clean it?”

John smiles easier now, especially when Sherlock tries to pull one over on him. They know one another too well for that. And besides, John really does let him get away with enough already. It’s not going to work with him this time. “I might be willing to accept that reasoning had our tub not been occupied by biohazardous waste just yesterday morning.”

“I would hardly call a spleen biohazardous, but...”

“You are quite aware how much of your shit I actually put up with, right?” John asks, though there’s no real anger laced in his voice, just a patient sort of annoyance. Sherlock isn’t nearly as demonic a roommate as some people implied he might be. John doesn’t mind the violin or the odd experiments; he supposes he should be more bothered by the fact that it’s virtually impossible to bring a date home, but he isn’t. John doesn’t spend too much time thinking about that. “It’s a lot.”

Sherlock simply blinks at him.

“And I assume that you know my limits,” John continues. It’s been a year; they’ve been through a lot, and many, many lines have been drawn. But John isn’t sure that this particular point has been driven home. “I would say that, well, not many flatmates would be willing to put up with body parts in the fridge, yeah? So clean up after yourself.”

Sherlock considers that for a moment, sliding the safety goggles up onto his head, causing his fringe to point out wildly. For the number of expressions John has seen cross Sherlock’s expressive face, this one is most seldom seen: confusion. 

It makes something in John shift and warm pleasantly. 

“And,” Sherlock begins, slowly, taking a step in John’s direction. “I can continue to use the tub for…purposes other than bathing?”

He feels himself shrugging before he speaks. This isn’t normal; he’s not normal. No normal person would cede to allowing their flatmate to fill their only bathtub with God-knows-what. But, like Sherlock often says, normal is rather boring. 

“Just make sure it’s, you know, safe for humans when you’re through.”

Sherlock blinks in suspicion at him. “You intend to bathe in a tub in which I very recently kept a spleen.”

Another shrug, “I trust you know how to properly disinfect it.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow to slits, and, rather than looking confused, his interest is now clearly piqued. “Do you now?”

John rolls his eyes, opens the refrigerator, and grabs a beer that is housed directly next to a properly-sealed canister of what Sherlock had assured John was pig semen. He doesn’t care a whit—what has his life become?

Had my hands in worse than pig semen, he reminds himself as he cracks open the beer. “Yeah, I do. So do it.”

“Do it?” Sherlock asks innocently, and it strikes John just how ridiculous he looks, all mad scientist, goggle atop his head, rubber apron tied around his waist. 

John just hangs his head on a burst of laughter. “The tub. Clean it.”

Sherlock does.

It’s an interesting balance they’ve struck. 

\---

It smells different in the flat.

John’s not sure what it is, what it could possibly be, but, as he climbs the steps, he registers a heady floral note in the air. It’s not overwhelming, but it’s stark enough to notice a difference. 

He unlocks the door to the flat and finds nothing amiss; Sherlock isn’t in sight, but now John’s on the trail, like a bloodhound. He drops his briefcase and begins sniffing around, through the sitting room, to the kitchen, and then, finally, the bathroom.

There’s a bag on the sink, not very large but not very small, either, emblazoned with the word “Lush”. John takes a cursory glance around him and then steps inside the room, uses one finger to pull the bag open enough to peek in. He’s met with nothing but a puff of crêpe paper. John takes a step back and then leans back in, dipping at the waist to bring his nose to the bag’s height. Primly, he sniffs, noting that the muted floral and citrus aroma seems to be coming from the bag itself. 

Rather than nose around in Sherlock’s business—very much unlike Sherlock would be concerned with regard to John’s business—he retreats to the kitchen, but even as he busies himself making an evening cuppa, he can’t help wonder what’s in the bag that smells so distinctly flowery. He can’t even fathom what it would contain. Juxtaposing Sherlock with flowers seems insane—but then, Sherlock has been known to bring home strange things.

John realizes how completely bonkers his life has become, thinking that flowers are strange and human blood in Tupperware is not. 

John sits down in front of the telly for a bit of Baking Show, but his mind keeps being tugged towards the question of what’s in the bag. His eyes keep straying towards the bathroom as he wonders. 

It’s only an hour before Sherlock bounds in the door, snowflakes in his hair. “Ah, John.”

“Case?” he asks, only momentarily struck by the high color in Sherlock’s cheeks, the flakes that are melting in his hair, catching the light from the lamps. He looks like he’s got fairy lights in his hair and it’s quite…something. 

“Touching base with the network.” He unwinds the scarf from his neck and shucks his coat. For a moment, he fiddles with his mobile before slipping it into his trouser pocket. “I’m not sure how those things work.” Sherlock gestures vaguely towards the kitchen before rounding the coffee table and plunking down in front of his laptop.

John’s gaze flicks from Sherlock’s pocket—dangerously close to looking at his arse there, Watson!—to his face. “What things?”

Sherlock sighs as though he’s suffering. “The bathroom, in the bag. Molly gave them to me.”

John is not following. “Okay…”

Sherlock finally looks up, exasperated. “For you, John.”

“Why would Molly give you something for me?”

Head flopping back dramatically, Sherlock turns to glance at him, “I told her that you like baths, so she got those for you.”

“Why would you tell her I like baths?”

“Because I think it’s funny.” He sniffs primly and straightens his back, begins typing once more.

“You think it’s funny. That I take baths.”

“Yes.”

“That I bathe.”

“I do. Yes.”

“Right, anyway. The bag.”

Sherlock smiles one of those fake, false things, fingers hovering above the keyboard. “A bomb of some sort.”

“A bomb?”

“Are you intending to repeat what I say all evening? Because it’s becoming rather tedious. A bomb, John, that you put in the water. It fizzes, or something.”

“Oh. That’s…”

“Yes.”

“Nice?” John tries.

“I suppose.”

John watches Sherlock type for a bit and then gets off the sofa, attempting not to look too eager. Once in the loo, he digs through the paper and finds three chalky orbs. John pulls each out in turn, smelling them. There’s a seafoam green one that has a base, earthy scent combined with something sweeter; another is pink and appears to have flecks of what looks like paper in it. The last is white and smooth with bits of red and blue flecks throughout; John takes a whiff.

Lemon and…gardenia, maybe?

John wonders what makes them “bombs,” specifically. They smell lovely, and he hasn’t had a bath in two weeks. He doesn’t bother asking Sherlock whether he needs the toilet, as he’s sure Sherlock will deduce what he’s up to as he climbs the steps to his room. Moments later he returns with his fluffiest towel, a novel about the Cold War, and a glass full of cold water. 

He turns the taps to his desired temperature and just watches the tub fill for a bit. When it’s mid calf, John tosses in the white ball and is shocked to see it start fizzing wildly. The scents release, invigorating and fresh; he’ll have to remember to thank Molly.

John steps in, enjoying the feel of the warm water enveloping his skin, and he maneuvers carefully to sitting and then to reclining. The bomb hisses and bobs, coming to rest on his thigh, tickling. 

The water turns a pleasant amber, and John feels the last of his muscles unwind. He picks up the book and begins reading, losing himself for a long while before the water goes tepid. He’s sleepy and pliant, and when he puts the book down, it takes him a few moments for his eyes to adjust.

He could swear—

“Fuck,” John bends his knees above the water, only to find his skin flecked with fine, gold dust. He is covered in glitter. 

The shower he takes is of no use, and, when he dries and changes into his pajamas, John resigns himself to taking a shower in the morning as well. He can’t be seen at the surgery like this, can he?

Padding out into the kitchen, he’s glad that Sherlock is engaged at his laptop; he’s not sure that Sherlock would allow him to live this down. Foregoing his evening cup of tea, he makes to mount the steps and avoid the possibility of Sherlock noticing.

“Oh, yes, also. Molly said something about glitter, but it appears you’ve already discovered that.”

John hangs his head, drops his towel on the bannister and trudges back into the kitchen. “Yeah, hah. Thanks for that.”

But Sherlock’s eyes linger; John catches him at it and he doesn’t look away. The moment feels oddly charged. “Well, at least gold is your color,” Sherlock says, an attempt at humor that lands somewhere else entirely.

John doesn’t know what to do with that, so he just flicks on the kettle and goes about making a full pot of tea. 

A thought occurs as he pulls out the sugar, “Let’s hope that this doesn’t mean Molly has a crush on me now.”

“Don’t flatter yourself John,” Sherlock responds, but then, apparently thinks better of it. “But yes, let’s hope not.”

\---

“I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“That is mathematically a fact, yes,” Sherlock says gruffly as he hauls John up the last step into the flat. 

John grunts, one arm slung around Sherlock’s neck and the other pressed against his hip. “Shut up, you dick. Get me onto the sofa.”

Sherlock grunts too, shuffling through the sitting room to the couch and gently, ever so gently, depositing John onto it. “You really should lie down, John.”

“Who’s the doctor here?” He maneuvers back, shifts minutely as he does so, and cringes. 

“Yes, well,” Sherlock straightens his suit jacket before seemingly realizing he still has his suit jacket on, and removes it. “You never seem to take very good care of yourself.”

There’s a beat of silence and then John is glaring up at him. “Excuse me?”

“Withdrawn,” Sherlock is quick to correct, and he stands back, bites his bottom lip and runs his gaze from the tip of John’s toes to his hairline. Sherlock falls to his knees, begins working John out of his shoes and socks. “Perhaps, well, would you…”

“A codeine? A very stiff drink? Yes, please,” John huffs, reclining until his head tips back and meets the wall. “One or the other. Not both. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says very quietly, and the soft, unguarded tone causes John to open his eyes.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock swallows, looking gangly and out of place before John; his eyes have gone wide and wet—wet?—and he seems a bit lost. “I don’t like seeing you hurt, John,” he says, his voice low and rumbling.

“Don’t like being hurt, Sherlock,” John responds, but Sherlock’s words, his voice, have kicked up a fit of butterflies in his stomach. Sherlock is protective of John, always, but John’s never seen him this obviously upset. John doesn’t know what to do, or to say, so in his classical stiff-upper-lip form, he deflects. “Hazard of the job.”

John says the last bit with a smile, but the words land, clearly affecting Sherlock. He swallows, looks away, and when their eyes meet again, he looks terribly guilty. 

“Not your fault,” John says quickly.

“If you’d not come—”

“Not an option,” John growls, and then they’re suspended in a stalemate, staring at one another, waiting for the other to make a move, to move on, to do something. 

Sherlock runs his teeth over first his bottom lip and then his top, rocks up onto the balls of his feet and with a newfound, rather fake-sounding enthusiasm says, “How about a bath?”

John blinks first in confusion, and then in surprise. “How in the world would I get into a bath?”

“I could—” The range of emotions that play out on Sherlock’s face, that have played out on Sherlock face in just the past hour, knock the wind out of John. “—assist you.”

“Like… an invalid.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs, but is already beginning to unbutton his cuffs and roll them up towards his elbow. “Don’t be difficult, John. I have epsom salt. It would be better than you just lazing about here.”

John’s not sure what makes him acquiesce, but a moment later he’s holding out his hand and saying, “Alright then,” and Sherlock is wrapping his long, soft fingers around John’s and helping him stand. 

They hobble into the loo and Sherlock deposits John onto the toilet and turns on the taps. “I’ll just...” Sherlock begins, and disappears. John can hear his tread, faster than usual, carrying him up the steps to John’s room. As he waits, John considers the fact that he’s not worried about Sherlock rooting around his room, he’s not worried that Sherlock knows exactly what to bring back down so that John may bathe properly. He’s not worried at all about how well Sherlock knows him.

When Sherlock returns, it’s with a freshly-laundered, fluffy towel, the novel John had just started yesterday, and a set of John’s warmest pajamas. For the second time this evening, John is overcome with Sherlock’s obvious care for him. “I, uh, thanks, yeah, I…”

Sherlock doesn’t look at him but maneuvers to pour a bit of the epsom salt he keeps beneath the sink into the tub. “You should undress,” he says, and disappears quickly, through the door to his room. 

A feeling of awkwardness overcomes him. Sherlock has seen him naked before. Sherlock has seen him in situations that are far worse than seeing him naked, but now, after seeing Sherlock’s eyes, the guilt there… John feels different. John feels that taking off his clothes is different now than it would have been before. Sherlock’s seen his skin, the whole of it, probably, but now it’s… more.

It means something else. 

Realizing it’s been a bit since Sherlock left, John does his best to shuck himself of his clothes while being very mindful of the state of his back. His trousers give him the most trouble, but he manages with a few grunts and curses. 

When Sherlock returns, John’s stripped down to his boxer briefs and feels about as foolish as he’s sure he looks. “I can probably get in myself, I uh-”

“Stop,” Sherlock says, sighs as he closes his eyes. “Just… let me.”

“Yeah,” John clears his throat. “Uhm, yeah fine, good.”

Sherlock glances down at John’s body, his eyes wavering before their gazes meet again. “You’re leaving those on?”

“Well…” Now he feels incredibly ridiculous, and though he doesn’t blush–John Watson does not blush about nudity–he swallows self-consciously. 

“Right,” Sherlock says and takes a step toward John, thinks better of it, and shuffles backward. “How shall I…”

“One around my waist, I think, I’ll just,” Sherlock gets into position and John slings his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and they stand.

And the world shifts. 

There it is, John thinks. Feels like I’ve been waiting on this for ages, and there it is. John can smell Sherlock, the sweat, the underlying cologne, the ever present woolen smell that clings to him. And the heat from Sherlock’s body feels scorching against John’s skin; he feels as though he may just combust. 

Fuck.

He’s on autopilot, registering Sherlock’s voice, though distantly, telling him to be careful in stepping into the water. He doesn’t want to touch Sherlock for any longer than he has to, doesn’t want to give anything away, because this is a fine, fine mess he’s gotten himself into. Together, they manage to lower him into the water without too much jostling, and once submerged to the best of his ability, John groans and leans back. 

He rights himself before cracking his eyes open and looking up at Sherlock. He’s wearing the strangest expression, and John can’t quite decipher it. It makes him feel...

He glances away, down at himself in the water. “Shit, these are see-through,” John has the presence of mind to say.

“Yes,” Sherlock grunts out, and then disappears. 

\---

It’s been a hell of a day, and a bath sounds so good that once he enters the flat, he beelines for the loo. He doesn’t prepare now, like he used to, just shucks his clothes and tosses them on the bed. Naked, he walks through to the bathroom and turns on the taps. The tub hasn’t been properly scrubbed in ages, but it’s just him and Mary using it.

No chance of contamination.  
The realization sends a sharp pain racing across his chest. It’s not the first he’s thought that when going to bathe, but it still hurts, still stings, just like the first time. 

When the tub is properly full, he gets in; the water’s a bit too hot, but he sinks down into it anyway, relaxing against the porcelain. It’s never quite felt right, here. The loo is nice enough, clean and bright and really, everything anyone could want in a bathroom. The tub and shower combination is even a bit bigger than Baker Street had been, but it’s just not the same. 

Shoulders back, he slumps down a bit more in the water, brings his feet up to press against the tiles. Best not to think of Baker Street now, when he’s trying to relax. Mary will be home any minute now and they’ll have to be off to the Haverfords’ for dinner. John doesn’t want to go, finds the Haverfords starchy and boring and bland, but Mary is convinced that they’ll need to be friendly with them, as Donald is on the board at the Chittendon School. 

“Call it planning for the future,” Mary had said with a bright smile. “Besides, afterward you and I can just go to the pub and get pissed and talk about how positively abysmal the home decor is, alright?”

That had made him not want to go only marginally less.

John hears keys in the door and then the front door to the house swinging open and hitting the wall. Mary must be carrying something; she’s always clumsy coming through the door if she has something in her hands. 

He knows Mary. He knows Mary now like he’d known Sherlock. For a while, he’d thought that knowing her would mean losing a part of Sherlock and he’d not wanted to do that. Not a bit. But over time, he’d learned to think about Sherlock less and less, put him to the back of his mind instead of the forefront. But sometimes he crops up, makes his presence so undeniably known that John almost resents Mary for her presence.

As though it had been her fault.

And that’s not fair. 

“John!” she calls, brightly from their bedroom. “Those damn throw pillows you ordered came. Throw pillows, seriously, can’t believe you’re decorating the living room, when—John!” she interrupts herself; he can hear her marching to the door. “Are you bathing in there?”

“Whyever would you say that,” he responds, cracking a small smile. Mary really is terrific, and very, very good at making him laugh when he ought not to. Like Sherlock had been.

“I can hear you splashing around in there. Swear to christ you’re half amphibious.”

That garners a laugh from him. “Which half?”

“Let’s say the upper half,” Mary says, and he can hear her rummaging about in the closet. “Like the bottom half just fine.”

“Arse or cock?” he poses and that gets a bark of a laugh from her.

“Both. Just not the face!”

“Oi!” 

“You’re so easy to rile up. Your face is very pretty, darling.” Mary opens the door and sticks her smiling face in. It’s such a thing, but he can’t help smile back. “Get your arse out of there. We’ve got to get ready, haven’t even a bottle of wine in to bring with us!”

“Yeah, let me just… finish up,” he says, his fingers trailing through the water just at the surface.

Mary frowns and the moment bursts. “John, I mean now, we’ve got to be out the door in ten minutes!”

“Right, then,” John says and opens the drain. “Right.”

\---

“What… is this?”

“What?”

“You said small, Sherlock. I believe the words you used were quaint and quiet.”

“It’s a cottage. A small, quaint, quiet cottage.”

“You hate quaint.”

Sherlock frowns, “Most of the time, yes.”

“But you brought me to this… cottage—”

“Small cottage—”

“It’s bigger than the flat!” John goggles, walking around a divider by the door. “Look at the damn bed!”

Sherlock secures his hands behind his back and for a moment, looks sheepish. “I didn’t necessarily procure the room for the bed, John.” John hums to himself and glances out the large window that overlooks the lake. “Though I’m sure we’ll enjoy that.”

“Well, yes,” John concedes. This is all still so new to him, so fresh. It’s like the packaging is still on their relationship. He still gets a thrill down his spine every time Sherlock decides to kiss him, he’s still caught completely off guard by the strength of the orgasms Sherlock wrings out of him, he still stares in wonder at Sherlock asleep, wondering how this all came to be, this incredible, incandescent love. “But if not for the bed, then what?”

Sherlock’s eyes grin before his mouth is let in on the secret. His face does a lovely little scrunch and then cracks open on pure delight. “Through here,” Sherlock gestures, oddly formal, into a room that’s so bathed in light that it’s nearly blinding. 

Once John’s eyes adjust, he’s completely out of words. The walls are entirely glassy, most of them showing the wear of glass that has spent some time by the sea. “Is this-”

“I’m told it was a greenhouse that was converted. Architect is a friend. Well… I say friend—”

“I’m your only friend,” John says, still in awe, still in something like shock. 

The bathroom is beautiful. White tile and brass furnishings with a high ceiling and a large, inset stone shower; but the focal point of the room is the oversized clawfoot tub that’s set in a corner, set in such a way as to overlook a portion of the cliff they’re on. It’s incredibly breathtaking as John watches the early winter sea smash against the slate.

“More than friend, John,” Sherlock says, and when John looks back on him, he’s looking at the floor. Perhaps Sherlock too feels like the packaging is still on their relationship. But he shouldn’t be meant to find any unsteady ground here.

“Yes, love,” John amends and steps up to him, dips his head until Sherlock glances up and catches his gaze. “I know that.”

“Alright,” Sherlock says quietly. 

“You did this for me?” John asks, though he knows the answer. He’s bowled over by the gesture, really. For someone who so insisted that he hated every sort of romance, Sherlock’s doing a pretty bang up job, in John’s estimation.

Sherlock scoffs, tries to move away from John, but John holds him around the biceps. “Obviously.”

“Christ.” John pulls away a bit, scrubs a hand over his face. “Christ, I’m, I’m… you make me... Sherlock.”

Sherlock just blinks at him, looking lost, and John is transported back, four years ago, to Sherlock helping him into the tub. “You make me feel… very lucky.”

The way Sherlock lights up, his whole body opening to accept John in his arms, is perhaps one of the very best things John has ever seen. “Take a bath with me.”

“John…”

“Try and tell me you got this house with that tub and didn’t think I’d make you get in with me.”

Sherlock presses his lips together, looking bashful, and murmurs, “I brought champagne.”

John’s mind stutters to a halt. “Champagne?”

“Because… well, isn’t that what people do?” Sherlock is becoming agitated, but John waits it out. “Anniversaries?”

John’s face is blank for a moment before he steps up, takes Sherlock’s face between his hands and kisses him softly, deeply, and it lasts for ages and ages. John finds himself overheated and shrugs out of his jacket before helping Sherlock push his own off of his shoulders. They stay like that, entwined in the greenhouse as the sun sets over the ocean, kissing.

When John finally pulls away he’s flushed and a little sweaty and beaming from ear to ear. “You are a romantic, you bastard.”

“Shut up.” 

John smacks his arse lightly and steps over to the bathtub; the pipes give a delightful groan before water begins spilling into the basin. John sits for a while, watching as the water swirls, picks up refracted light, diffuses it. He can hear the breaking of the waves and the wind as it squeals through miniscule cracks in between the stone and the glass.

It’s taken him an eon to get here, it feels like, but now he knows he can rest. Nothing appeals to him more than the thought of sinking down into the water with Sherlock behind him, and simply resting.

The casual pounding of water on water lulls him for some time, before he perks up and turns, Sherlock behind him, two robes draped over his arm. They share a quiet smile; John feels his heart bursting. “Did you—”

“I brought bubbles,” he says, holding a champagne bottle in one hand and a bottle of bath bubbles in the other. 

A crack of a laugh escapes John as he grabs the liquid soap and pours it in. “That was terrible.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, popping the cork. “Now, how do we do this? I’ve never bathed with someone before.”


End file.
